


“It is said that love and a cough cannot be hid.”  ― Dorothy L. Sayers, Gaudy Night

by notjustmom



Series: Tumblr fics 2018-19 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gift Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Fic, slight case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 09:40:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16851676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: The gift fic I wrote for the_consulting_linguist a request for sweet and fluffy Johnlock turned into a sick fic with love confessions. :)





	“It is said that love and a cough cannot be hid.”  ― Dorothy L. Sayers, Gaudy Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_consulting_linguist (xASx)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xASx/gifts).



The only reason they had agreed to go out in such bloody awful weather was that they hadn’t had a decent case in two weeks, no, to be exact it had been fifteen days, four hours and twenty-seven and a half minutes since the closure of their last case, and even John was crawling the walls. 

If he had realised that Sherlock was also fighting a major sinus infection on top of suffering through the worst case of boredom since last month, they never would have left the flat, but John had been working double shifts as often as he could to avoid his flat mate, as he had just arrived at the obvious conclusion… that part of the story can wait. 

First the case.

Lestrade had claimed it was at the very least an eight and a half. It was the ‘and a half’ that had dragged Sherlock from the couch, into the shower and dressed in - John felt his blood pressure sky rocket as Sherlock was dressed in the tightest black outfit he could find - later, it would turn out, he had ruined the entirety of the contents of his wardrobe with the remains of a mold experiment that even he had forgotten about, and he had no other choice but to put on something from his disguise bag, and he made it quite clear that the other outfit would not be appropriate for a crime scene in a driving rain storm. John had been afraid to ask.

As it turned out, it was merely a six, as it was mostly a question of understanding the meaning of the message that had been left on the fridge door by the victim; it wasn’t entirely Anderson’s fault, it was written in an obscure code that Sherlock had read about in some arcane novel that only thirteen people had ever read, five of those were probably editors of said novel. It was only then that John actually took the time to look at Sherlock’s face for the first time in days. He had that pinched look of someone trying not to look sick, which made him look sicker than he probably actually felt, and then John stood on tiptoe and used his wrist to take Sherlock’s temperature.

“You’re burning up, you idiot. Greg -”

Lestrade waved them towards the cab that appeared at the scene, and John pushed Sherlock into into it, sighing heavily as he watched him lean against the window, trying to find some relief.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was an eight and a half, John, it wasn’t, but, it could have been! Do you know long it’s been since we were that close to a nine?”

“Five months.”

“That wasn’t a nine.”

“No, I know, but it might have been. I have to stop at Tesco first, you will stay in the cab, do not move, yeah?”

“Not moving. I swear.”

And he didn’t. When John got back in the cab loaded up with antibiotics, tea and other odds and ends that they would need to get through the next few days, Sherlock was curled up in a ball on the backseat of the cab, fast asleep. 

It was that moment, the sight of Sherlock so vulnerable and so beautiful in the light that came from the lamp post from across the street that finally convinced John that he was utterly, undeniably in love with Sherlock Holmes, and he realised there was not a thing he could do about it except to love him. He slid in the cab and dropped the bags on the floor under his feet then pulled Sherlock into his lap and ran his fingers through his damp curls.

“Jawwwn - wha -?”

“We’re going home. Baker Street, just close your eyes and I’ll wake you up when we get there.” He felt Sherlock relax back against him and heard him sigh contentedly as his fingers wound into his curls again. Not another word was said until they reached Baker Street ten minutes later.

“Sherlock - you need to wake up.”

“Unggghhhh.”

“Just have to get out of the cab and up the steps, yeah? And then you can go back to sleep after I get some meds into you.”

“John -” Sherlock lifted his head and blinked at him. “You - what - I don’t understand?”

“Let me take care of you, and when you are up to talking, we’ll talk, but first, you idiot, we have to get you up the bloody stairs.”

“I love you too, John.”

John felt his own eyes do something funny, and then his stomach flipped, maybe it was some other organ, regardless of which one it was, he hoped it wasn’t that necessary to his continuing existence, but after a moment, he found he could breathe again. “I know. Let me help you, yeah.”

Sherlock nodded then grabbed the bags as John wrapped a strong arm around his waist and helped him out of the cab. It took ten minutes for them to climb the steps, and they were both exhausted by the time John had managed to get Sherlock out of the ridiculously tight jeans and into his softest tshirt and pajamas, then finally into his bed.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blew his nose noisily on a tissue and wiped it, then looked over at John and studied him for a moment, then tried to clear his throat. “No, I’m the one who should apologize, John. I’ve known - well, I had guessed, and I think I pushed it today, not purposely, but, I - you’ve been avoiding me, which meant you were planning on leaving me soon, or you had realised you had feelings for me. I didn’t want to speed up the process if you were planning on leaving, but I also - hell, my head.”

“I know.” John shook his head and sat down in the chair next to the bed and turned off the light as he handed Sherlock his meds and a glass of water. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but took them, handed John the glass, then burrowed under his blankets. After a moment, he peeked out from the covers and whispered hoarsely. “Will you come lay down next to me, please, John?”

“Sherlock -”

“If it’s too much, I understand, but -”

John sighed, then nodded. “I just need to change and I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock nodded and sneezed miserably, then pulled the blanket over his head again. When John returned, Sherlock was already snoring, but muttering in his sleep, and John shook his head, but walked over to the left side of the bed and climbed in, and immediately Sherlock rolled over and laid his head over John’s heart, sighing in relief.

John kissed his hair and whispered, “I do, Sherlock, I do love you, too.”


End file.
